Sarah vs The Psych Department
by Darius Kensington
Summary: After Bryce Larkin's death-the first one-the CIA's Psych department orders that Sarah keep a journal. Maybe it's a good thing we don't know what she's really thinking. Rated T for LANGUAGE.
1. Sarah vs The Pilot

**Darius's Note**: So here's the deal. This isn't my story. This belongs to my roomie, **Yvette**, who is too lazy to get her own fanfiction account and therefore has seen fit to use mine. And did I say lazy? I meant beautiful, and talented, and...yeah, standing right over my shoulder. I hope you enjoy this story, which she says is crap, but actually isn't. Don't believe me? Read on, and let her know what you think.

**Yvette's Author Note**: I'm sorry, world.

**

* * *

**

**The Very Secret Diary of Sarah Walker**

**Suck it, Psych.**

**Entry #1**

Psych says I have to start recording my feelings. Like I care about what Psych says. Everybody knows that Psych is a bunch of losers who couldn't hack it in the field, so they sit in their offices and tell the rest of us what to think and feel. However, with the events of last night being what they are, there's no time like the present to start writing.

Why do I care what Psych thinks I think? Is that going to help me in the field, ever? No.

I hate Psych. There, that's something to talk about. I hate Psych. They're losers and they're sanctimonious bastards just like everybody else in Langley and until they get their asses in gear and join the rest of us working stiffs in the field, I have no reason to listen to them.

There, is that enough?

Oh, and I hate Bryce Larkin. Stupid fucker, leaving me to clean up his mess for him.

S.W.

Days Since I've Gone Shopping: 3 (Didn't have time in DC, what with Bryce blowing up a FUCKING BUILDING)

Days Since I've Had Alcohol: .5 (What? Carina was in town)

Days Since I've Killed Something: .5 (Again: Carina)

**Entry #2**

Met the mark today. He's tall. That'll probably get him killed if he were an actual agent because there's so much more of him that has to duck.

Psych says that I don't have to send them every entry as I write them, and that I can submit my journal all at once. They did request, however, that I censor some of my language in the future, as they "have a very diverse staff and don't want to offend anybody's sensibilities." I once gutted a man and my knife got stuck in his intestines, which meant that I accidentally yanked them out and spilled them all over the ground. Smelled like shit.

How's that, Psych? Is that better?

Still not sure what's up with this Mark. Didn't want to ask him about (the Fucker) Bryce. They're both nerds, but they don't seem like they would ever run in the same crowds. Waiting for my phone to ring. Maybe his weird bearded little friend stole my business card. That should be a simple fix. I can hold him at knife-point until his (cuter) taller friend calls me back.

Nothing like holding somebody ransom to make my day better.

Still hate Bryce Larkin.

S.W.

**Entry #3**

Still no phone call. Mark clearly must have broken fingers. You know what? Time to take matters into my own hands, damn it.

S.W.

**Entry #4**

DAMN ALL POORLY CONSTRUCTED SHELVES!

Stuck in Burbank until Mark actually does call me back. Sarah Walker, foiled by a couple of nerds? What the fuck?

Have to report in to Graham to let him know that I failed to retrieve the hard drive. Meanwhile, am puzzled by the lengths that nerds will go through to protect their hard drives. What's on there, anyway? Hard drives are for porn, and there's plenty of that online. Hey, Mark, maybe next time you're faced with the deadly assassin ninja, just remember that you can Google your "two Asian chicks doing each other" porn any time of day. It's really not worth dying over.

Damn idiot's going to get himself killed.

S.W.

Days Since I've Gone Shopping: 0 (Red top on Rodeo Drive called my name so loud that I broke surveillance to go buy it. Not like Mark is doing anything but fiddling with computers in the Buy More)

Days Since I've Had Alcohol: 1.5 (And God, do I miss it)

Days Since I've Killed Something: 1.5

**Entry #5**

Well, it's official, I have a date.

But more importantly, I hate Psych. You know what those bastards did? They woke me up with the news that the guys had been eagerly awaiting an update of my journal. They called it "The funny bitch who swears too much."

And they say _I'm_ uncreative.

I told them to shove it. They seemed sad that that was all I had to say to them. Like I'm going to waste my time on fucking Psych? I have a date. I wonder if I should wear the blue lingerie I picked up in Monaco last month, or the red? You know what, I'll go with the black. The Mark's a nerd. Least I could do is give him a thrill.

Still hate Bryce Larkin. But I hate Psych more. Pricks.

S.W.

Days Since I've Gone Shopping: 0 (Needed new top for date. They expect me to go out with a less than perfect top? And found really cute boots, too. Half off. Beat that, Carina)

Days Since I've Had Alcohol: 2.5 (And can't drink tonight. Got to be play the wholesome, demure new kid in town. Snort. Like hell)

Days Since I've Killed Something: 2.5 (And if the Mark doesn't compliment my boots, that number will go down to 0 very soon)

**Entry #6**

Well, fuck me.

S.W.

**Entry #7**

I would like to apologize to Psych for not stating my feelings clearly enough in the previous entry. That is both irresponsible and unprofessional on my part—who the hell am I kidding? Suck it, losers.

The Mark is no longer the Mark. He is now the Asset, and it looks like I'm going to spend who knows how long cleaning up after another one of Bryce Larkin's damned messes. At least this time it's in Burbank, where there are things like department stores and Pay-Per-View (a girl has needs, you know. Suck it, Psych).

Turns out the Mark was just some innocent idiot who stumbled in on everything because Bryce Larkin, in addition to not being able to keep it in his damn pants, sees his nearest and dearest as expendable. The date, which was actually fairly pleasant (turns out nerds can speak once you get past the drooling "you'resobeautifullet'smakeoutinmymom'scar" stage), was cut short by the newest bane of my existence: the NSA's biggest asshole himself, John Casey. A girl just wants to get her dance on, and suddenly it's all "let's send guys in suits into the middle of a club because that's not conspicuous at all, nooooo."

That's okay. I'm Sarah Walker. I took out three of them, and made the world a safer place for everybody. You should take note of that, Psych. This is what real agents do. They kick ass.

Of course, the Asset surprised us all by saving the day. I'm still not sure how I feel about that, and neither does he, apparently. I got to freeze in the car all night because the idiot just wouldn't go home. Sat on the beach all night, just…sitting there. Doing nothing. Truth be told, I just don't get him.

But the bomb's defused, the Asset is at home in bed where he belongs, and now I can glare at my pictures of Bryce Larkin. I must remember to get Photoshop on my new work computer so that I can draw evil little mustaches all over his too-pretty face. I hate Bryce Fucking Larkin.

And I miss him, too.

But I hate him more.

Who knows how long I'll be in Burbank? No point in moving out of my hotel room until I know what's going on.

And one more time, for good measure: Suck it, Psych.

S.W.

Days Since I've Gone Shopping: 1 (And trust me, I need to fix that SOON. If watching a nerd disable a bomb with a computer virus doesn't call for retail therapy, I don't know what does)

Days Since I've Had Alcohol: 0 (I sneaked away and got a beer while the Asset moped on the beach. I got one for him, too, but he didn't seem like he was in the mood)

Days Since I've Killed Something: 3.5 (Unfortunately, Asshole Casey's men all survived, and the Asset DID compliment my boots. Live to kill another day, as they say)


	2. Sarah vs The Helicopter

**Darius's Note: ****Yvette** and I both wanted to thank those who took the time to review the first chapter. That was very cool and you guys are amazing. **Yvette** tells me it was a lot of fun to write and she hopes you enjoy the chapter.

* * *

**Sarah Vs. the Helicopter**

**Entry #8**

So Psych's latest orders came down through the pipeline today, thankfully via email (less chance for some idiot to drool over himself that way, like, God, are you even house-trained, Psych? Don't answer that). They want me to talk about my childhood.

How fucking cliché is that?

Want to know about my childhood, Psych? Really want to know? Fine, since this journal is classified anyway…

Where should I begin? Probably at the beginning, like that windbag Graham always used to tell me. Nobody in my hometown would ever talk about it, but everybody knew. My parents both had horrible, horrible addictions. Dad's was worse, of course. You can't even begin to compare what my father was shoving up his nose all his life with my mother's love for the sappy, oversaturated plotlines of _Passions _or whatever the fuck it was she used to watch. But they were both terrible, in their own way, because it means I wasn't fucking hugged enough as a child.

It makes sense that my sister and I turned out the way we did. I don't know if you know about her, Psych. Who am I kidding? You know everything there is to know about me, the Great Sarah Walker. So you probably know about Shara, too. My twin sister, the only woman I've ever loved unconditionally, and my greatest competitor since before we could walk? She shares my face, and I share her soul.

She's the saddest thing about my life. I will never go a day without regretting, even for a minute, that it was I that met kindly old Mr. Smith down at the drugstore, and not her. With Mr. Smith's influence, Shara could have been saved from a life of drugs and prostitution. I could have been the one that dropped out of high school to give birth to a set of mixed-race twins. I could be the one that always wears long sleeves to hide the needle marks. But instead, Mr. Smith found me, and he helped me, Journal, in ways you'll never begin to understand.

And holy shit, Psych, are you really buying that? Hahahahahaha.

Suck it, Psych.

The only thing I do want to say is that the Asset is acting strangely. He normally gets a little drooly around me (though he feels so bad about it afterward, it's kind of cute), but ever since I dropped by to buy some CD-Rs for my work-out tunes last week at the Buy More, he's been giving me odd looks.

And he thinks I don't notice these things. What, is he blind?

S.W.

Days Since I've Gone Shopping: 1 (fabulous new earrings yesterday)

Days Since I've Had Alcohol: 0 (A girl is entitled to a mimosa or three with breakfast. Leave me alone, Psych)

Days Since I've Killed Something: 9.5 (Not quiiiiiite a record, but getting there)

**Entry #9**

I have another date tonight. Now, normally this means I wouldn't have time for this seriously amazing journal (it's the best fucking thing ever, right, Psych? Yeah, right, you losers), as I would be too busy getting ready for my date later. Oh, who am I kidding? I'd be busy throwing knives at the wall (I'm trying to spell "troglodyte" in Latin) since I don't ever have to get ready. I wake up looking this fabulous. It's like magic.

Carina's a little jealous. I know for a fact it takes her five whole minutes to look nearly as damn good as I do.

What should I write about? Am I excited about my date? Hell no. It's just the Asset, and we're going to the Buy More, of all places, to meet up with some Egghead that the home office is shipping out to us. Hope it's better than the last guy. Took me three weeks to wash the drool out of that red top, which is a real fucking travesty as that top looks fantastic on me.

And besides, even if I were excited, it's not like I'd tell you losers. I can think of several old Soviet officers I'd spill state secrets to before I would tell you morons a thing.

Suck it, Psych.

S.W.

Days Since I've Gone Shopping: 0 (Okay, even if the date's only at the Buy More, a girl has a duty to look drop dead gorgeous, and I've got an asset to handle, after all)

Days Since I've Had Alcohol: 0 (What, you're going to deny me a morning mimosa? I WORK IN A FUCKING SAUSAGE SHOP.)

Days Since I've Killed Something: 11 (And don't think I haven't thought about taking out a few teenage boys over the past couple of days. Except somebody might miss them (I don't see who, personally) and my license to kill is already on shaky ground after that whole incident in Ojai)

**Entry #10**

All right, Psych, you want to know how I really feel?

Damn it, I'm pissed as all fucking hell!

Where the fucking hell does he get off, I ask you. WHERE THE HELL? Because I am Sarah FUCKING WALKER and right now, I am PISSED.

You know what? I'm not even pissed at the Asset. It's not my fault that he's a freaking moron and apparently has trust issues even though I TOLD HIM explicitly to trust me. And why shouldn't he trust me? Does he not understand?

Maybe I should start at the beginning. I don't want to fucking talk about it, but Graham got on the line yesterday and let me know in very certain terms that not talking to you losers in Psych would lead to bad things. He threatened to take away my knife collection.

He laughed when I said he'd have to pry them from his cold dead fingers before that would ever happen. Apparently, I told a joke.

Yeah, that's right.

So what happened? The Asset was a freaking moron, that's what happened. He invited me to dinner with his sister and extended family, which apparently includes the bearded gnome gamer friend of his. Problem was, I had to spend all day in the middle of bumfuck, California because our scientist was too stupid to search his car before he got in it. I found an interesting clue at the crime scene that the Asset identified as an NSA incinerator.

So, great, now more trouble from the fucking NSA. As if life weren't peachy enough. I've got Asshole Casey telling the Asset not to meet with me, like, what the hell? And if that isn't bad enough, spending an entire day at a crime scene with the jerk, and then having him poison my Asset against me, he actually stormed in my place of work and tried to get the drop on me. But Sarah Walker is nobody's bitch, and I smacked him down like the mighty hand of God that I am.

Still, he somehow got his hands on my Asset again, and then the two idiots nearly got themselves a one-way ticket straight to the afterlife. Turns out somebody tried to blow up the Asshole's overpriced, gas-hogging Suburban WITH MY ASSET INSIDE. And instead of coming and telling me, they accused ME of doing it.

That's the only reason why the stupid fucker got the drop on me, I swear it is. The stupid fucker in this case being the Scientist, not the Asset. He was rather stupid today, but he's not a fucker.

You know what's more humiliating than being stuffed in a trunk? Having somebody chain you up in an old warehouse with your hands above your head like some cheesy B-movie actress. Seriously, what the fuck was UP with that? And then the Asset and the Asshole showed up to come save the day, only it didn't work because apparently the Asset's afraid of needles. He warned me he was. I should have listened, damn it.

But yeah, he passed out. It was like watching an extremely tall building topple over. I'm kind of amazed that he didn't shake the entire building, though he's kind of on the skinny side, so I guess that makes sense and—

Oh, right, I forgot. HE HAD TO FLY A FUCKING HELICOPTER.

And Asshole's over there, trying to give him directions that are more confusing than War and Fucking Peace, until I'm all, give me the phone. I talked him down because he's my Asset and I'm his handler, but I want you losers in Psych to know something, just in case you can't read between the lines (and I'm kind of convinced that that's the case):

I am maybe, sort of, possibly, just the tiniest bit angry right now.

I'm going to go carve insults about Scooter's (lack of) genitalia on the inside of the freezer door at the Wienerlicious.

S.W.

Days Since I've Gone Shopping: 1 (Dealing with the Asshole and the Asset all day cut into some serious shopping time, but trust me, Journal, Rodeo Drive won't know what hit it tomorrow)

Days Since I've Had Alcohol: 0 (You think I'm not drinking a scotch and soda right now? You're right, I'm not. Why bother with the soda?)

Days Since I've Killed Something: 0 (I took a couple of them down with me. It felt GOOD. Sarah Walker is fucking BACK, baby)

**Entry #11**

I hate Bryce Larkin. Why did the Fucker have to die on me?

The Asset and the Asshole both came to the funeral. The Asset used to be his friend, but I have no idea why the Asshole was there.

Oh, what the hell am I saying?

Suck it, Psych.

S.W.

**Entry #12**

Things are okay with the Asset again. Still haven't talked to the Asshole about what happened with the helicopter, but the less I have to listen to that man's language of grunting and growling and grr-noises, the better. Hey, maybe you hosers down at Psych could take a look inside that head of his sometime. I'm sure he'd be a lot more fun. You could claim you found the fucking missing link and get famous and then I wouldn't have to keep writing you these damned diary entries.

Sound good? Well, too bad, you can't have him. I've already carved his Latin name in the hotel lobby where the clerks can't see it (if I'd carved it in English, the clerks would know, see?). Sounds like the Asset and I are keeping him.

Had a surprisingly fun meal of burnt corn dogs. For civilians, the Asset's family ain't so bad. Carina would be dying of boredom here, not that I'll ever see her again on a mission after that whole fiasco in Barcelona.

Honestly, how were we to know that you can't train a ferret to do _that_? Oh, well, lessons learned. Next time we won't spray-paint it orange first.

Suck it, Psych.

S.W.

Days Since I've Gone Shopping: 0 (Saw a very cute necklace in the Buy More plaza. Sneaked out on my lunch break, not that it matters. If Scooter catches me, I'll just hog-tie him to the deep fryer and shorten the rope every hour until he shuts the hell up)

Days Since I've Had Alcohol: 0 (Sneaked some whiskey into my soda at lunch. It made the burnt corndog taste better. Somewhat.)

Days Since I've Killed Something: 2 (But those kills the other night were so awesome that I don't mind)


	3. Sarah vs The Tango

**Darius and Yvette's Note: **Again, thank you so much to everybody who's read and reviewed. I (Yvette) had a customer that really got on my nerves, so I wrote this on my break Monday. It's very cathartic. I hope you enjoy, and sorry it's kind of a convoluted pile of cow crap.

**Sarah vs. the Tango**

**Entry #12**

You bastards down in Psych are a bunch of sick puppies, you know that? I heard about the picture you've got pinned up in those tiny little cubicles you morons call an office, and I am NOT pleased.

And how do I know about it?

I'm a field agent. I know all, I see all, and maybe if you'd actually been competent at SOMETHING in your lives, you wouldn't be sitting in some pathetic excuse for an office, debating if the CIA cafeteria has the chicken fingers you like today or if it's going to be another day of vegetable soup because you have to watch your weight because of your fat ass, and you could actually contribute something USEFUL like I do.

But since this journal is a freakin' psych journal, and I've already received two reprimands on my pristine record (which, by the way, I WILL be dropping by to see you about, so you'd better fucking run and hide), time to talk about my feelings. Specifically, my feelings about the boys in the home supply office.

WHOSE IDEA OF A FUCKING JOKE WAS IT TO MAKE ME WORK AT A WIENERLICIOUS?

I mean, seriously, I understand that the store's got the best sight-lines in the plaza so that I can watch the front doors and make sure the Asset is okay (he is, thank God), but I can't help but wonder what sick fuck dreamed this place up. I look like a Bavarian FRUITCAKE.

And who the hell's idea was it to make a SKIRT part of the uniform? You know how high I can kick in that skirt without showing my hoo-ha to the entire world? NOT VERY FUCKING HIGH. Let's just ignore the fact that it's so damned short, I regularly break nudity laws. I am a fully trained, fully functional officer of the Central Fucking Intelligence Agency. I have an Asset to protect and the Asshole to back up.

You know how much I can do in that skirt? I can do seduction missions. And who the hell wants to do those with the As—

What the fuck was that, Sarah? You know what? I don't know, and I don't care. Suck it, Psych.

Anyway, like I was saying, it's pretty much impossible to do anything in that skirt. Oh, sure, it's got all of the benefits of regularly distracting people with my fabulous legs (and they are fabulous, if I do say so myself), but then what?

And let's talk about the rest of the uniform. The blouse, I can handle. It's got buttons, I can open them and shut them as needed in case I need to flash the boys and distract some male (I keep them mostly closed as the Asset always feels bad about drooling and the Asshole may very well be a eunuch) or other, but what the hell is up with the girdle? No, seriously, it's a girdle. It's this black…thing…and it goes around my ribcage. Sure, it silhouettes my awesome abs nicely, and it does gives the fellows a bit of a boost that they won't ever need because I have the Walker genes that regularly make regular humans weep…

But seriously, what the fuck?

Is there a purpose to the girdle? Or did somebody in the home office sit and think to himself, "Let's see, how many ways can I insult my hard-working agent who's stuck in a dead-end town with very little promise of action, either sexual or just violent? Ooh, let's add a girdle! Because that's a fucking great idea!"

Seriously, I am going to go find that guy and hunt him down like the son of a bitch pig that he is. I've been needing a target to test how hard to throw my knives when the end goal is human flesh, and with this girdle shit, he just fucking volunteered.

Of course, all of this aside, it's a rather fantastic place to hide my gun. So there is that.

Let's see, what else? What else? Oh, yeah, the necklace. Wearing a nametag is bad enough, the blouse is terrible, the girdle is fucking awful, and the skirt is chauvinistically pointless, but the hotdog necklace? Really, Supplies Office? Really? And to add insult to what was already a pretty fucking big insult to begin with, you put it in the employee manual that I HAVE to wear the necklace?

C'mon. You have got to be shitting me. This is the woman that has hidden compartments in every single one of my living establishments that contain some of the world's finest jewelry, and it only goes with my thousands of wonderfully coordinated outfits, and all of THAT is complemented by the fact that I am like a hairstyling NINJA. I don't have to put up with shit like the hotdog necklace, and being called "Froy-line Sarah," in Scooter's terribly nasal accent (They don't even SAY Fräulein anymore, dipshit!).

But Psych, maybe you should tell your buddies down in Supplies that even though they did try to hamstring me with the stupidest outfit on the planet, I still kicked La Ciudad's ASS while wearing that fucking skirt. You know why? Because I am Sarah Walker, and that's what I do. I kick ass, even if I smell like a fucking sausage all of the time now and the deep fryer is clearly a beast from the ninth circle of hell meant to taunt me. Even though I'm apparently doomed to spend my days in a grease-fueled oblivion of hot dog hell, at least I don't work in a cubicle like you losers.

Suck it, Psych AND Supplies.

S.W.

PS – Well, the Asset did say that he liked the hotdog necklace. So it's not all bad. But that doesn't mean you're off the hook, imbeciles.

Days Since I've Gone Shopping: 0 (Bought a cute top while I was out picking up wine to meet up with Asset, sister, and gnome-like growth at the Asset's side. It's red, and it looks cute next to white shirt-gray tie combo)

Days Since I've Had Alcohol: 0 (Had said wine)

Days Since I've Killed Something: 9 (Unfortunately, my badass beatdown of La Ciudad did not end in any casualties)


End file.
